


Adventures in Molly Land

by Catzgirl



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blindfolds, Double Penetration, Light Bondage, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, eyyy, howdy folks and welcome to the nightmare, it's ya girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 17:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14117553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catzgirl/pseuds/Catzgirl
Summary: Molly is exactly as much trouble as he's worth.





	Adventures in Molly Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiach_dubh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiach_dubh/gifts).



> This was a prompt from the wonderful fiach_dubh, so you have her to blame!

"You're so beautiful like this."

The occasion warrants his crookedest of smiles. "I know," he says, because he does. There's a reason that Molly's most visible tattoo is a peacock, that it's the one that graces part of his face, and although it's not because he loves to watch himself fuck in front of a mirror the case could easily be made. He knows what he looks like with silken ropes pressed to his skin, crisscrossing over the planes of his tattoos, binding his arms behind his back. He knows the sort of picture he paints when he's flushed blue-violet from his cheeks to his mid-chest, knees bent and spread so that all the bits are on full display. He knows what the sight of him inspires when he's blind folded and pouty-lipped and already dripping for more.

He knows what he looks like, but he still likes to hear it.

A hand reaches out, trails along the designs of the ropes down one arm, pauses to tweak at the piercing of one nipple until he gasps from it. "Warranted," Fjord says, gentle but also faintly amused, "But rude."

Despite the reprimand, he preens, wriggling his hips and trying to tip his chin down so he can nip at the fingers ghosting over him. "Tell me something better," he says, because he knows what he looks like so he knows he deserves it, "Surely that's not the best you've got."

Another pair of hands are on his legs, nails instead of claws raking down the soft flesh from knee to inner thigh, hands that spread the cheeks of his ass even further. Spoiler alert: Caleb can never keep the wrapper on his gifts for long.

"You," and, gods, if he'd been a Zemnian tiefling, if he'd had _this_ body and _that_ voice? He'd be living in the lap of luxury, surely, "Are exactly gorgeous enough for the amount of trouble you cause," and that's fair and more than.

Caleb spreads his ass cheeks apart, tuts his tongue, says, "Oh, but this is very naughty," and Molly moans because he very much _is_ , and that's the best part, "Darling come look what our _Betthäschen_ has done," and Molly moans again as fingertips circle the pucker of his ass without delving. As a reader, Caleb loves to go back through his old books and reread the beginnings and the ends, loves to skirt around the climax.

There are fingers on his nipples, playing with the jewelry there, that become the glossy slide of the backs of Fjord's claws down his sides. "Oh," Fjord says, and Molly's head cocks to the side to better hear his favorite drawl, "Oh, well ain't that the picture of sinful?"

It is. He knows that. He knows what he looks like when he's stretched his own ass, when he's ready to be fucked and filled, when he's already dripping with lube. What he wants to know is how his lovers look when they realize it. He chafes at the blindfold, pouts and leans further into his embrace of pillows, stretches his knees as far as he can so _they_ can see, since he's gone through the trouble.

"And when the fuck did you have time to do all this?" Fjord's always so careful with his fingers, so mindful of his claws, it's all gloss and glaze when Fjord glances over the rim of him, left dripping with lube from Molly's ministrations.

"Earlier," he says, and tips his head back because it's not like he can fucking see, anyway, "Before," and it's an answer, no one can fault him for evading the question. He was not expressly forbidden from this, per say, and how could he be expected to resist? "I'm a creature of indulgence, dears," and that's more of an answer than the first.

"Molly-in-the-middle," Caleb says, and there's breath on his face as someone leans in, "Is that what you were expecting?" Caleb kisses him, and he knows it's Caleb because Fjord's claws are still between his thighs, still roving the space between his balls and his rim, still sending the _most_ exquisite shivers up and down his spine, and Fjord can only be in one place at a time. So it must Caleb's mouth on his, Caleb sucking on Molly's tongue, scraping it with his teeth, and those are definitely Caleb's hands that tug him by the horns to a more upright position without breaking their mouth-to-mouth contact.

And he did—he does. Molly-in-the-middle is riotously fun, _he's_ riotously fun, and there's very few places he likes to be more than filled ass and mouth with cock.

(Off the top of his head, he can think only of filling someone else's mouth or ass with cock.   
It's that or the bath house.)

"Expecting?" Molly says, and he's not out of breath, he's _not_ whining, "I'd rather say that I'm due it," and he doesn't twist away at the one hand that flows from horn to face to the ropes knotted around his shoulder, over and under his arms, that frame his pectorals into targets that he knows are more-than tempting, "I've earned as much."

"Earned?" Fjord's voice is a grumble that he can _feel_ on him. The cadence of every word is a living thing, is a sea creature that slithers over his skin, "What in hell you done to _earn_ it?"

Molly grins, doesn't answer because he knows what he looks like when his white fangs glint against his purple lips, just leans against the hand Caleb still has on his horn, purrs when Caleb's thumb massages into the base of it. He knows what he looks like; that's work enough.

"Warranted," Caleb says, and his lips quirk against Molly's jaw, his neck, "But rude," and there's _heat_ around the metal of one piercing as Caleb's tongue envelops the already pebbled flesh and _twists_ at the same moment that Fjord's mouth and teeth come down on the bit between Molly's ass and balls. The half-orc sucks _hard_ and Molly does keen, does try to twist away, but he's already reclined against his pillows so there's nowhere to turn to get away from the sudden stimulation.

" _Oh_ ," he gasps, to his own horror, "Oh, _yes_ ," and he can feel his own pout in the set of his lips, tail helplessly twitching somewhere in the pillow pile. He likes being trussed up, being fussed over, the cool silk of the ropes against his rapidly heating flesh, but the _blindfold_ is new and—he _likes_ it, _but_ , "Caleb," he says, groans, cock throbbing against the press of what must be Fjord's shoulder as the larger man continues to lave at everything _but_ , "What game tonight, loves?"

(If there's anyone that should lead a three-ring-circus, it's not Caleb. Molly has the greater experience, Fjord has the leveler head.   
Life is strange sometimes. He likes to do the things which grant the most fun.   
And, in any case, Caleb in a top hat is an image that _does_ things for him.)

Caleb doesn't generally laugh the way people do. Caleb's laugh is more an _implied_ sort of thing—the hard exhale against Molly's chest as he hovers, trying to decide whether he wants to stay on the same nipple or torture the other, is more than most people get in a week.

"No games," Caleb murmurs, "But I think we will put your hard work to good use," and Fjord gives an answering if vague rumble from where he has just taken Molly's balls into his mouth, smooths up the space between them, gives a too-gentle suck on one before tonguing it to the side and working on the other.

(He hates the blindfold.   
He loves the blindfold.   
Sometimes contradictory things are still true.)

Both of his men pull away from him, leaving him reeling, and he's _not_ writhing on the bedcovers, he's not _keening_ for more, but if it seems that way? Then so be it. His ears twitch but his two favorite men know exactly how to pitch their voices, how to keep their conference from him, how to keep him in the _dark_ and if his tail weren't wedged between so many pillows it would be a study of fits and starts in his impatience.

"This is gonna warrant a change in position, darlin'," and Fjord's voice is off to the side now, Molly's ears twitch to track it.

"I've just gotten comfortable," he says, he _lies_ , because he's not really, not with his cock straining against nothing but air, not with no hands on him. "Just to be clear," because he'd thought it, earlier, but hadn't said it and should have, "No one told me I couldn't stretch myself. It wasn't a rule," punctuates it with a frown because he knows what his lips look like, the temptation that they present.

Fjord's hands are on him, suddenly, gently, and Fjord is lifting him into a kneel, Fjord is slipping in behind him, under him, and he frowns because Fjord is _always_ gentle. Part of Fjord's brain is reserved for being careful with his claws.

Molly would like _all_ of his brain to be reserved for Molly. 

Caleb is fumbling with something nearby, and then hands are on him, lube-slicked and pressing between his thighs, testing the stretch of his ass—no complaints to be had, and that's as expected but it still _thrills_ him—and then down down down and the moan that Fjord makes is even _better_ as Fjord's hands move to his hips and guide him, well, _down_ _down_ _down_.

"I told you so," because he's ever the peacock, there's a reason it is the sole tattoo he has that is always visible.

"Next time," Caleb says, and his voice is as deadpan as ever, "I should think a gag, instead."

(Letting Caleb run any show is the very height of folly.   
There's nothing better, Molly is sure, than a good folly.)

One of Fjord's hands remains on his hip, braces him; the other hand traces a line up and down his side, luxurious strokes that alternate from the abrasive, calloused tips of a swordsman to the matte dragging of keratin. "I want it," Molly moans, kneeling on the bed with Caleb somewhere in front of him and Fjord's cock pressing against his entrance. He tips his head from side to side not from any tension but because the chains in his horns are as musical as any noise he can make himself, because it provides the appropriate backdrop for whatever comes out of his mouth next. "Fjord," he breathes, and Fjord only needs the one hand on Molly's hip to brace him, large as it is. His knees are on either side of Fjord's pelvis and that's—gods above, that's a stretch already, and this is very distinctly _not_ a punishment for having taken time to play with himself, which was only not against the rules if Molly were playing by his own.

The head of Fjord's cock pushes into him, not _easily_ , nothing about the size of his half-orc allows for _easy_ , but with much less ado than is usual. "Caleb," he moans, because he likes the way he sounds, because he knows exactly what he looks like as he pauses with just the head of Fjord's cock piercing him, the verdant green length pillaring his lavender ass, but he'd still like to _see_ it which is why Caleb had insisted on the blindfold.

It's also how he knows that Caleb will never actually use the gag. Molly's voice is far too pretty to be so tempered.

He arches his back as far as he can with his arms still restrained, without the use of them to brace himself on the man beneath him, but that's still pretty damn far. Fjord is leans back into the pile of pillows, but Molly arches his back until his hair scrapes against Fjord's chest, and only then does he begin to work himself down onto Fjord's length.

If it were _easy_ it wouldn't be worth it, but he's stretched enough that the usual ado is much lessened, so he puts on a bit of a show for Caleb, whom he cannot see or locate in the room but who is most certainly watching. The blue silk of the ropes crisscross him from navel to collarbone, securing his clasped arms behind his back and contrasting the lilac of his skin, and it strains against him as he arches his back and slowly eases, up and down, bit by bit, onto Fjord's cock.

"What game tonight, loves?" He is very distinctly not being punished for technically not breaking the rules, and though Fjord is gentle enough to let him get away with it, Caleb?

"What do you think, _mein_ _Betthäschen_? _Nur_ _ficken_?" And he has no idea what the fuck Caleb is saying, but he's found where in room Caleb's voice is coming from—in front of, directly at the foot of the bed, and he didn't realize that he'd been moved so close to the edge, that Fjord's legs must be hanging off, "Is that what you deserve?"

If he knew Zemnian he could answer, but he doesn't. Luckily, he is gorgeous enough that words are not required, he can bask in the _drag_ of Fjord's cock inside of him, how Fjord's rumbling laugh starts in his belly and ends somewhere behind the scars on Molly's chest, but he pouts because he's already opened himself up and though Fjord's girth, the length of him are always impressive, he'd rather thought there would be more in store for him. A good round of Molly-in-the-middle is quite impossible at this angle, he's too high up for Caleb to comfortably get into his mouth.

(Careful, love, careful.   
Caleb is the least experienced of the three of them—not so great a feat as anyone would think, it turns out—and the most prone to emotive outbursts.   
There's a reason they let him lead, in this.)

"Since you are so hungry," and Caleb isn't talking about his stomach, Caleb's not talking about food, "I thought we would fill you—to excess."

What the fuck does that mean? The flesh of his ass, softer there than the rest of him, rests on Fjord's pelvic bone and he stills again just to feel Fjord heave under him. Molly straightens his spine slowly, vertebrae by vertebrae, so that they can enjoy the view that he's being robbed of, until he can face the direction that Caleb is.

"Interesting," and he trills the _r_ , just because it seems like something that would scitter through Caleb's bones. Mollymauk in the spotlight is something behold—to be held—and he knows that while Fjord's first instinct is to protect, to claim, to be a living shield, Caleb's?

There's a sharp exhale, the closest that Caleb ever gets to a laugh. Caleb's first instinct is to push forward through hardship, is to struggle alone and sleep on his stomach so that his vitals are under him, so that he is always ready to run. So here's the thing that Molly's learned early on:

Caleb in charge is best, because Caleb is always thinking, always considering, and it's almost never about himself.

"Caleb," he says, "What do you need from me, pet?" and that gets him another sharp exhale that has a smirk dripping from the corner of Molly's pout. He's got his arms tied behind his back, he's veritably impaled on Fjord's cock with Fjord's hands holding him still and steady, and none of that is to mention his blindfold.

They'll give him anything, like this. He knows how he looks, he knows his own worth.

"I need," and if Caleb sounds impatient, that's always the case, "For you to be very still," and why wouldn't that catch his interest?

He follows the suggestion, such as it is. His muscles feel lax and loose and languid as Fjord traces lazy designs up and down one side—first the callouses, then the claws—and he doesn't hear Caleb's footsteps on the wooden floors because Caleb is very careful but not in the ways that Molly and Fjord are.

"We're monsters, darling," he croons to neither of them in particular, sings a few notes under his breath of some song or another, because if he can't see or move then he might as well let his voice roam instead, "Monster men," and that's as Caleb's body heat meets his own, as Caleb's hand card through his hair and directly to his horns.

Both of them have a fascination with his horns that is utterly delightful. Caleb's hands grasp full around them, mindful—not careful, and isn't that an important distinction—of the chains strung there, thumbs gentle pressure points at each base, and holds him in place. "You will tell me," Caleb says against his lips, even as he stops Molly from closing the gap between them, and Molly shudders, shivers, sways so much that Fjord sends another groan pealing out of him, "If it is too much," and that's not the sort of order to be toed. It's exactly the sort of order that he likes best.

Caleb's hands press _down_ and Fjord lends both of his hands to pressing him _down_ until he's got Fjord's cock as deep as he can be. "You will tell me," Caleb says again, because Caleb is always worrying and it's never about himself, and then their mouths meet, and it's _good_ , the way he knew it'd be, and then Caleb's dick is pressing where Fjord's cock already is and _oh_.

"This is not a punishment," he gasps, licking from Caleb's mouth to Caleb's throat, "You are doing a very bad job at teaching me a lesson," and he nips beneath Caleb's chin.

"Darlin'," and Fjord is moving, is sitting up so he can kiss Molly's shoulders, so that he can pull with his teeth at Molly's silken bonds—so carefully, just hard enough for Molly to feel, not hard enough to even risk releasing him. "Why in the fuck would we wanna punish such fortuitous planning?" 

A nudge, a head that presses where he's already been penetrated, the pressure steady and unyielding. "If anything, we figured that we'd put your-ah," and the slight stutter, the little intake of breath, that's all that noise that Fjord allows when the head of Caleb's cock forces its way past that first rim of muscle, joins Fjord's shaft in the inside of Molly's literal ass, "Your-ah, _oh hell_ , your fu-ucking," and the half-orc under him loses his train of thought completely.

Molly is usually very tight and _very_ hot—proclivity of all tieflings, of course. With two cocks in him? This is not vise, this is not heat, this is—" _Oh_ ," he says, ever the desire to sound pretty at the forefront, but this is not, there's no, " _Oh_ _foc_ ," he curses, and Fjord holds him steady with both hands and Caleb holds him by the horns and even without those things he would not have moved for any one of the gods or, now that it occurs to him, for any combination of them either.

"Easy," Fjord murmurs, and Caleb is slow, so slow, and this is not the first time that Molly is thankful for that but it is maybe the fiercest. The stretch of his ass is _phenomenal_ , is just this side of overwhelming, is enough that his next moan has none of his rehearsal in it, is only from his gut, and both of his men groan in twinned approval. 

He is going to split in two. He had stretched himself _so well_ that even Fjord's girth hadn't packed the usual punch, but they have unmade all of his hard work—no, _re_ made it. Pilloried atop Fjord, his body strains in their grasp, his every instinct is lean towards Caleb like flowers to the sun, but his favorite two men hold him still and Caleb goes _so slow_ as he pushes in, and in, and _in_ and he would _like_ to split into two, if this is what it feels like, he'd like that _very much_. " _Liebling_ ," Caleb says, "Tell me," and that voice is not suggestion, that is very much the voice of a man that is accustomed to being obeyed, and Molly has _no idea_ how he looks with two cocks inside of him but he would bet good gold that he still _sounds_ rapturous. 

"I fe-eel," and he does, he knew he would but he _does_ , " _Foc_ , Caleb, Fjord, _le do_ _thoil_ ," because he can't think past the glide, the slide of Caleb's cock on Fjord's and the luxurious burn of every muscle in the rim of his ass and how will he ever, ever walk or talk or live again without this feeling of overcapacity, of utter fulfillment?

(Caleb in a top hat is an image that _does_ things for him.   
Caleb is the least experienced of the three of them, but what does that even mean?   
There's a reason that they let him lead, in this and in most things that the Mighty Nein does.)

There's a mouth on one of his nipples, hot and wet against the cold metal, and he jerks at the touch, tries to arch his back because this is a _lot_ , there is a lot going on right now, but there's hands on his hips and around his horns and _oh_ , he gets it now: "I have to _move_ ," and the very tip of Caleb's tongue traces the edges of his barbell.

"If you do," Caleb says, "I will have to pull out," and that's—that's beyond diabolical, that’s beyond devilry, and Molly's not the type to beg but there he goes, all _no_ 's and _please_ 's and a stream of _ah-ah-_ _ahhh_ as he strains to work himself upon both of his men and Caleb's hips finally meet his. He's going to split into two and he doesn't even mind, he's going to split into two and he'll have died every bit as indulgently as he's lived, "More," he groans, he pleads, "More," because even stuffed full to overcapacity there's always a greater folly to be had.

"Sinful," Fjord says, and the very tips of his claws prick at Molly's hips, "How're we supposed to punish him when he looks so pretty," and that gets a _laugh_ out of Caleb, quick and soft but _real_ ; Molly's entire body tenses as a little spurt of precum dribbles over his thighs, surprised out of him by the breathey little half-chuckle. Fjord and Caleb clasp hands around him, and Caleb's chin digs into his shoulder as the human strains for the half-orc, and Molly is barely coherent enough to be jealous that they're kissing with him on their cocks, he's barely aware of anything beyond the burn of the stretch, the utter stuffing, the decadence of his own body.

" _Me_ ," he hisses, and turns his head to lick and nip at their joined mouths, " _Me-_ _ee_ _,_ " dragged out as Caleb gives a very slow, gentle thrust. Fjord's claws are still pricking his hips and he loves it, loves that it means that Fjord is out of his mind, loves that Caleb can take them here where none of them are monsters but men, just men, and they can love each other without worrying what it means for monsters to let down their guards.

Caleb drags out, but not very far, and thrusts back in. It's slow and languid and the noises that his cock makes in Molly's body, the noises it makes against Fjord's cock is the sound of _filth_ and this is more along the lines of what he thinks of when he calls Caleb a dirty hobo wizard, this is what makes Caleb's cheeks bloom pink while the others obliviously laugh.

It's not going to take long for him to cum like this. Just getting Caleb all the way in him has Molly on edge, has Molly gasping, his thighs are shaking with the effort of maintaining his balance, Caleb has told him _not to move_ and there's no room to toe this line, there is absolutely no room for error here.

(And who put Caleb in charge? What gives Caleb the right to sling orders at them?   
Besides everyone. Besides everything.)

He holds perfectly still as Caleb thrusts into him, hard enough this time that Molly's cock slaps wetly against his stomach, and he's not the type of tiefling to _whimper_ but here he is. "Loves, darlings," and he's beyond panting, beyond breathless, there is no _guide_ for what he is now for what he's doing, "I won't—" and the words are barely out before Caleb is pumping into him in smooth, steady strokes. His arms are clasped behind his back and he's straining against the ropes as Caleb and Fjord kiss over his shoulder and the sweat that runs down his body is its own stimulation, its own brand of _too much too much too much_ and he is, he's going to--

" _Foc_ _,_ " he breathes, and there are hands all over him, there are claws all over him, and then two sets of mouths set to his shoulders and chest and anywhere else they can reach, "Oh _no_ , oh _please_ ," and he'd learn his lessons, maybe, if they didn't so thoroughly reward him for breaking their rules, "Oh, _lig_ _dom_ _,_ _lig_ _dom_ Fjord, Caleb," and he isn't sure which of them is laughing but it rolls through every inch of him as hands wrap around his shaft and—

That's all it takes. He's so close already, gods above just getting them both _in_ him was almost enough, but the tight grip on his dick is more than. His peacock tattoo isn't enough evidence that he's the type of tiefling that fucks in front of a mirror, and yet he knows exactly what he looks like when his body shudders from horn to toe, when his lilac skin flushes bruise-blue and violet, when his voice goes staccato-strained and white paints in stripes across his chest—and Caleb's. There are hands on every inch of him and they stroke him through it, Fjord's voice thunder in his ear, "More, _more_ , give as good as you get darlin'," and every muscle he has is clenching, stuttering through something very much like contractions and Molly remakes himself every so often just for the fun of it, so what is this but the birth of a new _him_ , of a new _them_?

(Careful, love, careful—   
There's a reason  they bring him to this point, there's a reason they put his hard work to such good use.   
It's not to let him fall alone.)

The fucking blindfold, _the fucking blindfold_ , he's got no idea which of them comes first, is only aware that they _are_ and he thought they were already filling him past the point of sense but this? This is what will split him in two, and he'll go happily when it does.

" _Liebling_ ," Caleb whispers at the same moment that Fjord noses at one pointed ear and whispers, "Darlin'," and all he's got left _is_ a whimper, so that's what he gives them.

They get him off of them. They get him cleaned up. He's aware of only how soft they are, how gentle.

(He's earned a bit of pampering.   
That was hard work, just now. He's earned a bit of spoiling, surely.)

When they're done fussing over his limp form they curl along either side of him, his human and his orc, and he lets them arrange him however they want, feeling generous even as the gratification still trembles in his thighs.

"We're monsters, darlings," and his voice is wrecked, he's barely audible even to his own ears, "Monster men." Fjord's big green palm passes in front of his eyes to pet his hair and—hang on, he hadn't even realized the _fucking blindfold_ was gone. He brushes one hand through the short fringe of Fjord's hair and—hang on, where did his bindings go? There are matching smiles awaiting his gaze, Caleb's lips actually curved instead of quirked, Fjord's scar turning his into something decidedly more wicked.

"We're your monsters," and that's in tandem and it's true: they're his as much as he's there's.

(He learns absolutely no lesson from all of this.   
He learns only how very full he feels with his favorite men wrapped in either arm.)

"Tell me something better," he says, and settles in to wait for the next round, "Tell me how much trouble I'm worth."

He knows, but he likes to be told.

**Author's Note:**

> PHEW! This took me almost a week to bust out- it's my first m/m/m so I am very ???? about it? Hope yall enjoyed it!


End file.
